


just like the ocean under the moon

by angelsaves



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Waxing, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29974731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: In which Thomas Jopson, a faculty assistant just beginning a workplace affair with Professor Francis Crozier, decides to experiment with personal grooming; things get very steamy.(The modern university AU I couldn't stop thinking about.)
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	just like the ocean under the moon

**Author's Note:**

> cheerleading by skazka, football thoughts and beta by mardia!
> 
> NB: jopson doesn't have to call crozier sir, he just does it for horny reasons

Very little of what Thomas Jopson does is governed by whim. Kissing Professor Crozier, for instance: that was the result of months of careful planning, including studying the habits of the man known as "the terror of the military history department," ascertaining his interest in men in general and Tom in specific, choosing the right moments to bend over in tight trousers to pick up dropped papers, and, of course, being in the right place at the right time. Dear Professor Crozier (Francis, when there aren't students or colleagues present) worries that he might be pushing Tom too far, too fast with their furtive kissing and groping in his office late at night; Tom, for his part, is near to clubbing the darling over the head and dragging him back to his flat.

The decision to spend his lunch break receiving an extremely thorough personal waxing, therefore, is an oddity for Tom. He's not experimented much with hair removal; trimming, to be sure, but nothing more — well, dramatic, perhaps, than that. The technician is a brisk and kind young woman who handles his cock and balls with no especial care and chats with him about football while she smears hot wax onto his skin and tears it off in strips.

"That disallowed goal though — deep breath — what a disgrace it was," Reena says, ripping the hairs from his perineum in a practiced motion. "There, that's the worst of it done."

"Don’t know what the video replay is for, if it can’t catch that sort of mistake," Tom agrees, face down on a folded towel. "What's left, then?"

"The front bit, if you like." She gestures for him to roll onto his back, twirling a finger. "Leave a landing strip, or take it all off?"

Tom peers down at his groin once he's turned over, braced on his elbows. "In for a penny, I suppose," he says. "Take the lot."

"That's the spirit!" Reena spreads more wax over his remaining pubic hair. "I think everyone ought to try it at least once, y'know."

"Do you?" Tom inquires politely, lying back the rest of the way.

"Sure! Gives you a new perspective on your body, and all. Plus there's the increased sensation — not that I'd know anything about that, of course." Reena gives the ceiling an angelic glance, then yanks the strip off. "There you go, love! Let me just check you over for strays."

Apparently she missed a few; Tom holds his thighs apart with his hands while Reena plucks them with tweezers, then wipes his newly bared skin with something cool and astringent and pronounces him finished. He's sure she's giving him aftercare instructions on her way out the door, then again as he pays her and takes her card, but it's as if he's hearing it from another room; the world has narrowed to the incredible sensitivity of his hairless skin.

He can't _wait_ for Francis to touch it.

* * *

The only reason Tom survives the wait until Professor Crozier returns from his Visual Culture of the American Civil War lecture at quarter past nine is, he's fairly certain, because he's got a kink for anticipation. He ran out of actual important department business three hours ago; since then, he's been primarily fidgeting, hydrating, and talking down his erection.

When he hears a familiar tread approaching the department, Tom tempers his excitement and summons his usual smile for Professor Crozier. "How was your class tonight, sir?"

"Oh, fine, fine," he says absently, then pauses, turning back from the corridor to his office to look at Tom. "What are you still doing here, Jopson?"

The expression of cautious hope on Crozier's craggy face is a gift; Tom wishes he could keep it in a locket. Instead, he lets his smile widen, easing his perfectly correct posture a fraction, and pushes his hair off his forehead. "I don't know, sir," he says. "Have you got any ideas?"

Crozier goes charmingly pink, his deep blue eyes crinkling. "I'm sure I can think of something to keep you busy," he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket. "Idle hands, you know."

"They do the devil's work, I'm told." Tom tucks his chair under his desk and follows Crozier to his office, closing the door firmly behind them while Francis goes through the motions of setting his desk to rights. "I always wondered just what that work might be," he adds, shifting his weight to stand contrapposto against the door frame.

"Did you?" Francis asks, raising his eyebrow over a stack of essays. "Must have been too busy with pure thoughts and clean living."

Tom snorts inelegantly, then claps a hand over his mouth. Francis chuckles, and Tom recovers himself enough to say, "Of course, sir. Bible study and regular cold showers. Good for the soul."

"I'm sure you scrubbed thoroughly," Francis says, and Tom's never heard a better opening.

"That's not all I've done thoroughly, sir." He wets his lips. "Would you like to know where I spent my lunch hour?"

"Not at Bible study, then?" Francis settles into his desk chair, looking up at Tom.

"No, sir. Have you ever noticed the salon on the corner by the pub?"

"I can't say that I have." Francis eyes him. "Did you patronize it, then?"

"I did, sir. Shall I show you what I had done?" Tom fingers the button at his collar.

"Show me whatever you like, Tom," Francis says. His voice has dropped into the low, rough register of desire.

Tom smiles and starts to undo his buttons, one by one. He hasn't fully undressed in front of Francis before, so he intends to make it good; from the way Francis's mouth falls open as the placket parts above his navel, it's working.

He lets his shirt fall off his shoulders — it deserves careful folding, but not at the expense of the aesthetic — and undoes the catch of his trousers. The sound of Francis swallowing is loud and wet in the quiet room, but the sound of Tom pulling down his zipper is _obscene_.

In just his briefs, the only difference in his visible body hair is the absence of the fine dark trail that led downward from his navel. It leaves only smooth skin that seems to draw Francis's gaze like a magnet. When Tom hooks his thumb in the waistband of his underwear, drawing it down an inch or so, Francis half rises from his chair, palms flat on the desk, eyes gone hot and dark.

"You're welcome to take a closer look, sir," Tom dares to say, glancing at Francis through his lashes.

"Am I, now?" Francis asks. He stands, takes off his jacket, and rounds his desk to lean against the front of it. The deliberately casual pose shows off his erection quite nicely. "Carry on, then."

Using both hands now, Tom slowly eases his briefs down his hips, while Francis rolls up his own sleeves, watching him. More and more of Tom's naked skin shows, and then the root of his cock.

That's when Francis pushes off from the desk and pins Tom to the door, one hand in Tom's hair, crushing their mouths together with all the furious passion Tom craves from him. "You," he mutters between kisses. "God, you've — have you any idea how lovely you are?"

"Mmm." Tom sucks on Francis's tongue, drawing it out, then lets go. "Tell me, sir?"

"Like a statue, you are." Francis kisses Tom's throat, his neat beard prickling wonderfully, and strokes his fingers down Tom's chest. "Come to life to drive me mad. Christ, and — did you do this for me to see?"

He's touching Tom like he's precious, lower and lower, and that very gentleness is a glorious torment with all of Tom's nerves aflame like this. It has Tom panting already. "Not just — ah, God — not just to see," he says, clutching at the back of Francis's shirt, probably wrinkling it awfully.

"Is that so?" Francis pulls back, looking down at Tom from arm's length, studying him with that incisive gaze. "Does it feel so different to be touched, now that you've... patronized that salon?" He rubs his fingers lower still, over the smoothness of the skin just above the waistband of Tom's briefs, and adds, "Is it — good?"

Tom laughs raggedly, delightedly. "You can't imagine," he says, laying his hand on top of Francis's. "Every sensation is magnified a thousandfold. I craved your touch before, but like this..."

Francis's eyes have gone quite dark now; he looks hungry, like he could devour Tom entirely, and oh, Tom wants him to. "Is that so," he muses, a crooked smile showing the charming gap in his front teeth. "Just here, then? Just what you've shown me, that's where you want to be touched?"

"Oh, not at all, sir," Tom says, ducking his head to hide his grin. "I didn't want to presume, of course, but if you'd like to see more..."

Now it's Francis's turn to snort. "I've a feeling you presume a great deal more than anyone knows," he says, tilting Tom's jaw up to meet his eye with a twinkle, then steal a quick kiss. "Yes, you pretty little sneak. I would like to see more."

"A _sneak_ , sir!" Tom tries to feign shock, but a sound horribly like a giggle escapes his lips, and then he and Francis are clutching each other and laughing fit to burst.

When they've composed themselves a bit, Francis kisses Tom with filthy promise, then leans his forehead against Tom's. "A sneak," he repeats. "You built lovely, careful traps for me to catch you in, didn't you? And here you are."

"Here I am." Tom angles his face to be kissed, but Francis pulls back, letting him sag against the wall.

"Here you are, and I'd like you to show me what else you got — shaved, is it? Waxed? Something arcane you youngsters have come up with?" Francis nods firmly, a get-on-with-it sort of gesture that thrills Tom to his toes.

"I'm thirty-six, you know," Tom says, a token protest, as he slides his briefs down to his ankles and steps out of them. "Hardly a youngster. And it was hot wax." Nude now — more so than he's ever been, perhaps — he poses for Francis's perusal, spreading his legs shamelessly.

"A mere babe," Francis says mildly. He strokes his thumb down the length of Tom's cock, distracting him from arguing the point — pets his balls, moves them aside to explore the territory beyond. "Christ, there's nothing left of it, is there? Bald as a bloody spoon."

Every part of Tom's skin is singing, yearning towards Francis. "Yes," he gasps, as Francis's fingers move nearly frictionlessly along his perineum, the cheeks of his arse, until — "Ah, God, please!"

"I thought that might be what you were after," Francis growls against the soft place behind Tom's ear, the tip of his forefinger tracing gentle circles around Tom's hole. "Surely you didn't think you needed to coax me?"

"I — oh! — I _wanted_ to coax you, sir," Tom clarifies, rocking his hips upward into Francis's palm, where it cups his straining cock almost desultorily, downward onto Francis's finger, where it rubs maddeningly against his rim. "Oh, you feel —"

Francis nibbles his neck, still just barely rubbing his hole, and says roughly, " _Tell_ me, Tom."

"Nnh!" Tom can hardly think, overwhelmed with touch, but it's clear to him that Francis's finger will stay where it is until he's satisfied. "You're — what are the — the rocks that crack open? God, sir, Francis, please —"

He can feel Francis's smile against his throat. "What, do you mean geodes? Rough and dull on the outside, sparkly bits inside?"

"Never dull," Tom says, "God, Francis, never that, but — you've depths I think you don't let most people see, and they're precious to me." He fumbles for Francis's free hand and gathers it to his face to kiss.

"Tom." Francis's face is soft and wondering. "You really mean that."

"Yes," Tom whispers against his knuckles. "Sir."

"Honesty ought to be rewarded," Francis says, and before Tom can comment, he pushes his fingertip — finally, _finally_ — inside his hole. It goes easily, of course, because Tom strives always to be prepared, and Francis huffs a little laugh. "Forethought, as well."

He crooks that finger, and Tom shudders all over, then steels himself and says, "Sir, wait, please?"

"Of course," Francis says, stilling his hand. "Are you all right?"

"I've never felt better," Tom promises. "It's just that I want —" He licks his lower lip. "I'd like to come on your cock, sir."

" _Christ._ " Francis's cock twitches flatteringly where it's pressed against his hip. "Have you got —"

"Of course, sir." He neatly sidesteps Francis and bends at the waist to retrieve the condom from his trouser pocket, the better to display Reena's handiwork; Francis, in his wisdom, takes the granted opportunity to fondle him until he's ready to purr like a cat.

"Over my desk, then?" Francis suggests. Tom nearly trips over his own feet, uncharacteristically clumsy, in his rush to obey; Francis sets one hand on the small of his back, using the other to sweep the bits and bobs of academic life off his desk in a thrillingly careless gesture. Pens and Kendal Mint Cake wrappers clatter to the floor, Tom presses his cheek to the wood, and Francis tears open the condom packet. "Ah, you look good like this, Tom."

"Thank you, sir." He squirms a little, getting his arse to its best angle. "I hope I feel good, too."

Francis chuckles, low in his throat, and grasps Tom's hips; then he's thrusting home inside of Tom, driving into him deeply and steadily, like crashing ocean waves. "You do," he growls into Tom's ear, "you know you do."

Tom twists under him, getting a better angle for a sloppy kiss, more panting against Francis's mouth than real finesse. Francis spreads one hand possessively over his bare cock and balls, and that tips him over the edge: Tom comes with a half-swallowed cry, all over Francis's wrist and the front of the desk.

"Shh now," Francis says, "we wouldn't want to shock the janitors, would we?" He works Tom's spent cock as he fucks into him, over and over, almost too much sensation for even Tom to handle.

"No, sir," Tom manages to say. "Mustn't be — oh — a bother."

Francis's inexorable rhythm breaks just then; a few more sharp thrusts, and the hand on Tom's hip clenches hard as Francis reaches his climax. "No, no," he says softly, "never that."

After a while, when they've regained their breath and the sweat has begun to dry, Francis draws his cock slowly out of Tom, patting his arse fondly. "Ah, what a mess you are, my lovely little sneak," he murmurs.

_Mine_ , Tom thinks. _Lovely._ "I should think so, sir," he agrees, unsticking his cheek carefully from the desk top.

Francis strokes his thumb over his bare hole, drawing a shudder of pleasure out of him. "Think you got as thorough a fuck as you did a wax?" he asks. There's humor in it, but something else as well, quivering just below the surface.

It's an effort for Tom to get up, all his muscles languid with pleasure and release, but he does it, and turns to take Francis by the upper arms. "Yes, sir," he says, smiling up at him. "I rather think I did."

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> yes, the title is from "smooth" by santana, featuring rob thomas of matchbox 20, and no, i'm not sorry, because i could have kept the working title ("candy daddy's smoothest m&ms").


End file.
